#also at the end sylus says 'i love you' in hmong :)

[scarletardor]

Having a conversation about your heritage when Sylus finds a traditional Hmong baby carrier with your stored items. Tiniest callback to the Beyond Cloudfall myth. fem!reader. ty @meena-in-a-nutshell for beta reading <3

“Sweetie, what’s this?”

Emerging from the hall, Sylus holds in his hands a tight, awry bundle of fabric. It’s familiar to you, as you tilt your head in observation. Once at your side, the jumble of various cloths becomes more visible as he sets it down in front of you.

It’s completely handmade, the preface of long strips of cotton wrapped around flatter, delicate silk. Around the increments of silk that peak out, there’s some semblance of puff balls, delicately stitched patterns, and miniature beads. As you undo the giant knot that secures it at the back, your eyes widen when you remember why you had this tucked away in a box, burrowed deeply in the closet of this particular safe house.

Idly, you muster a strained, “Oh.”

You lay out the rest of the silk: it’s two rectangular panels stitched together, the bottom chunk longer and wider. The entire piece is handmade, cross-stitches of textiles framed by thinner, multi-colored lines. Adorned by those same puff balls, you can make out the miniature stitching of floral diamonds. The thick strips of cotton are sewn into the top sides of the silk, the rest of it crumpling onto the ground due to their length.

Sylus sits beside you, placing his hand on your back, “Sweetie?”

“It’s…” You clear your throat, sparing a glance towards him, “Something my grandma gave me. It’s a baby carrier.”

He takes a moment to process your words, running his own calloused fingers over the beautiful textile. Family… was a precarious subject for you. While you spoke of your heritage every now and then, there was always a tinge of restraint or stumbling in your words. Even resent.

“It’s beautiful,” he tells you earnestly. He leans on his elbow, resting his chin on his hand as he gazes at you with a familiar, tender gaze. He’s patient, waiting to see if this was something you would be comfortable talking about further.

You hum pensively, flattening your hands over the carrier, “It’s called a nyais. Normally you can buy them at local the New Year festivals, but it’s more... traditional? Righteous? To have it passed down from your grandma.”

Finally, Sylus lets his demeanor falter. He’s in the clear to press further, to be more curious. He chuckles, like he would before laying out the debaucherous end of his enemies, “You don’t appear thrilled to have it in your possession.”

“I’m not ungrateful to have it, like my parents think,” you sigh. “When you’re constantly hounded about how you will have kids… it’s nauseating to have the heirlooms representative of that.”

Sylus is waiting for you to finish. You two have had discussions about the future before.

About this.

Your hands fall in your lap, and you’re failing to meet his gaze now. You’re thinking too hard—about all of this. Instead of continuing, you look back at the nyais, beginning to fold it up.

He stops you, cupping your working hands with one. Sylus clears his throat, intending to steer the conversation: “But you haven’t thrown it away.”

“I can’t bring myself to.”

You let go of the carrier, interlacing your fingers with his, “They always remind me that I used to speak so much Hmong when I was a kid. A toddler. Then it… all went away, when I got older.”

“Because you went to school. Learning an entirely different language, social customs. Things beyond your control.”

“Correct.”

“And what do you make of it?”

You grimace at first, then chuckle: “It’s kind of fucked up, isn’t it? Forgetting my own culture just to exist with others. And even then, assimilating into what is a model citizen still feels very… out of place. Like I still don’t belong.”

Sylus doesn’t say it outright—feels like he doesn’t need to—but he knows the feeling. You’ve yet to know why, your memory still a haze. So he settles for squeezing your hands a bit firmer than a second before, right along the last few words you speak.

When in Rome, as the Romans do.

He continues the conversation, “Do you think… you’d reconcile with that distance at all? The disconnect?”

The question is loaded, but effective in that it makes you consider. Reflecting on your upbringing, and how quickly everything shifted. You didn’t even think you’d end up where you are now—settled with a partner who listens to these grievances and doesn’t think you’re crazy.

But nothing of substance comes to mind.

Your gaze falls on the nyais once more, discomfort no longer present.

“I don’t know,” you finally answer—sliding into Sylus’ lap and leaning into him. Naturally, his arms wrap around you, holding you closer.

Warmth envelops you like a fireplace on a snowy day.

When parts inside of you begin to fester in emptiness, somehow Sylus always comes along at the right time. Almost like he feels the pull that something is amiss—or it’s fate’s own unique way of protecting a love meant to be. Your ancestors making up for everything you have burdened for so long.

Then, you feel it—that very warmth blossoming into something else. Something very Sylus, within the capabilities he possesses.

His smooth, timbre voice whispering into your hair: “Kuv hlub koj.”

You straighten your posture, instantly finding those crimson eyes that always had a fondness reserved for you. Your own gaze widens, blurred by tears as you smile. You laugh—and though it’s always beautiful, Sylus hears it differently.

There’s relief, a unique kind of joy incapable of being put into the right words to do it justice. He treasures it, sealing the memory with his lips brushing against yours.